


The Beat Of A Different Drum

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-03-18
Updated: 1999-03-18
Packaged: 2018-11-10 17:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11131944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: On his way North, Fraser reveals he's not as happy as he looks... This story is a sequel to How Am I Supposed to Live Without You?.





	The Beat Of A Different Drum

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

The Beat Of A Different Drum

# Song Cycle #2:

# The Beat Of A Different Drum

**WARNING: More G-rated M/M angsting. Follows "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?"**

* * *

_O.K., here we go again. What can I say? My Muse is back and she's on speed...._

Guess who's turn now? Those who wrote to say how awful I was being to Ray in the last part were right. I've always done that-- I only attack the ones I love . I know, some consolation, huh? 

Anyway, this one was harder... Benny takes more convincing to spill like this. I'm not even sure that it really follows the song much at all, but the words did definitely act as a catalyst, so I'm leaving them in there. 

WARNING: More G-rated M/M angsting. Follows "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You?", but probably can be read separately. Has a bit more resolution, but not much. If this works o.k., I'm sure y'all will beat me into writing more. I have no idea where this is going, I'm just along for the ride, guys. 

DISCLAIMER: Not mine; if they were I'd take better care of them. (Notwithstanding all evidence to the contrary ;-) No offense intended. I'm not making a cent off it and, if you count time, pain and suffering , and my ISP connection, I think TPTB owe *me* money on this... so let's just call it even, huh?) 

* * *

# The Beat Of A Different Drum

**by Dianne T. DeSha (a.k.a. "la Mercenaire")  
**   
_Cat.Goddess@pobox.com_   


* * *

> _*You and I cotton to the beat of a different drum--*_

I could see it in your eyes, you know. 

That's why I couldn't, wouldn't look at them. 

It would never work. I have a life, don't you understand? A life outside of this city, this country. Sometimes I wonder if you even realise what I've left behind. 

How would you feel if it happened to you? Something took place beyond your control and suddenly doing the right thing meant everything went wrong? What if you lost your mother and chased her killer up into the Territories. And found him and _still_ managed to bring him to justice rather then ripping his throat out with your bare hands... and then found out that you couldn't go home? That Chicago didn't want you, that the force never wanted to see you again for what you'd done, and there was nothing that you could do but suck in the pain and the betrayal and try to wait them out, knowing perfectly well it might never happen? 

What if you might never see your family again? 

You think I don't have any family to lose, but it's not true. I have the snow and the mountains and the scent of a storm on the wind off the Arctic Ocean. You're right, I didn't have a family for so much of my life that I've made these my family. It's in them that I find comfort and peace and love and home. 

And if I stayed here with you I might never see them again. 

> _*Or can't you tell by the way I run,  
>  Every time you make eyes at me?*_

Linda. I keep trying to tell myself that I haven't used her, that somehow she knew all along. 

Oh, God. What have I done? 

It just began with talking, you know. I said something in passing about Tuktoyaktuk, fully expecting the confusion or the disbelief or the mirth or simply the glaze-eyed look that is always the result. But she was entranced. She seemed to feed off of the stories of the places I knew so well, to gain energy from the images of starkly beautiful, empty wilderness. And it was addicting. To be able to go on and on and know that she really wanted to hear it all. 

I talked for hours, until my voice went hoarse, and I felt such a sense of relief, of a weight lifting. It was almost as though I was home again, talking to her. And I went back to my apartment that night floating on a cloud, floating on memories and dreams. And the next morning it was still there, as I fed Dief, dressed in my red serge, and went downstairs, my heart as light as a snowflake.... 

Until I saw you. An oh-so-familiar green sedan pulled up and everything came crashing down, my exile, my loss, my pain. 

For a moment I hated you. 

The shock of realizing that hit me so hard I'm surprised I remained standing. I got in the car in a daze, trying to make some sense out of my feelings. I've never been very good at that. 

And you noticed right away. I don't know how, but your usual monologue stopped immediately and you looked at me with such concern in your eyes and asked if I was all right-- no teasing, no joking.... And I almost turned tail and ran. 

I don't know what I said, but I somehow managed to convince you that things were fine and you took me at my word and went on with news of your sisters and mother and nephews and I just let it all wash over me, the familiar mix of frustration and love in your voice as you spoke of them that usually somehow makes me feel so warm and safe inside too. But this morning it just cut like sharp lines underlining what I was missing, what I had lost. 

Come to think of it, you probably weren't convinced, were you? You were always so good at letting me have the space I needed-- accepting that I couldn't hold my emotions up for all the world to see the way you could-- that I always convinced myself that I had you fooled. I think I was wrong. 

The space you gave me was too carefully constructed to be the result of accident or even blind acceptance of my terms. It may have been space, but it was never empty-- you filled it with stories of love and warmth and hope. And sometimes, when you thought I needed it, you barged right in and refused to hear my automatic pleas for distance. More often than not I fought you off. If hours and hours of sentry duty has taught me nothing else, it has taught me to be able to out-wait, out-stubborn anything. Even you. 

But you _made_ me push you away. And because of that, I knew you were always there. 

That was that day that I faced it. I stood there at attention, eyes focused on the air in front of me and I looked at all the emotions that scared me so. I pulled them up one by one and sorted them out in rows like soldiers in a regiment.... 

I can hear you laughing now. In my mind you're rolling your eyes and throwing up your hands and saying " _Fraser_!" the way you do. I know it's ridiculous, pathetic. But it was the only way I knew how to approach something so wild and amorphous as the feelings that were roiling inside me. And I _had_ to find a way to understand. 

It was then that I saw what was happening, the torture I was setting up for myself. On the one side was the pull of home, so long a background pain that I'd stopped paying proper attention to it. Something in me had accepted it... not the loss, but the position of martyr. I never gave up on wanting to go home, but somehow I'd given up on trying to make it happen. 

And on the other hand was you. You are so much a part of this place, this city, that I can't see you apart from it. 

It's not like you've never been outside of it--I still remember the sight of you, bundled up beyond recognition, arm still in a sling, complaining bitterly every moment, as you arrived to tell me you'd discovered my father's killer. I'd never even thought to call, you know. I'd taken you at face value-- the "Mountie thing" was just another one of your cases, one that had taken far too much of your time and strength already. There were plenty of other cases, _American_ cases, on your desk to handle once you recovered. You had plenty of better things to do with your time. 

But there you were. Barely out of hospital and you'd tracked me down in the middle of nowhere to tell me, because you knew how much this meant to me. You _did_ care. 

I promised myself never to accept you at face value again. 

But you don't belong out there. You belong here. You would not be complete away from this place anymore than I am complete in it. 

And that was when I realised I had to do something quickly-- or I might never get home. 

> _*You moan and sigh and say "It'll work out...",_  
>  But honey-child, I've got my doubts--  
> You can't see the forest for the trees.*

Dief has a sadness about him ever since we left. Once upon a time I would have remonstrated with him for going soft, for mooning after a plush life in the city. But I know that's not the reason. For all his carrying on he loves the wilds as much as I do. He's just more willing to adapt to wherever he is because to him doing so is not a somehow a betrayal, an admission that we're never going home. 

He misses you. Not just the doughnuts or sleeping the day in the back seat of the Riviera, but you... and what you did to me. What you did for me. 

He knew then. He could see what I wouldn't admit. What I wouldn't show you. I caught that knowledge in his eyes as I stood there packing and talking on with my newfound voice, my newfound hope about home. 

Could you see that the joy in my eyes was for the family I was returning to, far more than for the woman I was taking with me? 

After that I started avoiding his eyes too. 

And so I looked away. I buried myself in the feelings, the hopes, the dreams of home. It was so unlike me. That was the way _you_ always felt-- emotions and passions blazing across the surface in such rapid succession that sometimes I could only stare, entranced. I've always envied that in you, your ability to just _feel_ like there was nothing else in the world for that moment. 

And now I've used it against you. Used the incredible rush that comes from of feelings suddenly released to hide myself from you, to bury myself away even deeper 

> _*Now don't get me wrong: It's not that I knock it,_  
>  It's just that I am not in the market  
> For a boy who wants to love only me.*

I can't even tell how much you understand yourself. Is it honesty or hope that thinks it sees... love... in the eyes of an Italian-American Chicago cop? 

Your feelings are always running across your surface like a waterfall, but how deeply do you ever look at them? Maybe I'm tearing myself up over something that was never there. 

I ran. I admit it. I ran from Chicago, from you, because I could see what was happening to me. How someday all too soon it would be too late and I'd never be able to leave at all. 

Only I think I got my foot caught in the door. 

I used Linda. I used her as a shield between us while I gathered whatever I could take with me and ran. 

But I left what I wanted most to take with me behind... where he belongs. 

I confessed it all to Linda on the plane to Yellowknife. I think she already knew on some level-- I desperately want to believe that she did. Not that that excuses anything. 

We never made love, you know. We'd kissed, but more like friends or siblings than lovers. And our abstinence was not the banked fires of restrained passion, but a simple closeness that didn't seem to need anything more. 

That didn't want anything more. 

We were each other's ticket out of Chicago-- both of us running for different reasons. But she was running to, as much as away, so when we arrived in Paulatuk she found what she needed. She's an extremely skilled teacher, you know. She hasn't the brashness to face up to a schoolroom in the heart of Chicago, but she's found a place here already. The students love her and I think she's never been happier. It's an incredible relief, I feel I owe her at least that much for what I did. 

But for me it is not so simple. For every second of pure joy at being here, at being _home_ , there is a moment of grief, of loss. Much as I try to deny it, I've only traded one exile for another. I'm deathly afraid that there is no longer any place on this earth where I can be truly happy. 

I want to hate you for that. 

> _*Yes and I ain't sayin' you ain't pretty,_  
>  All I'm sayin' is I'm not ready  
> For any person, place, or thing  
> To try and pull the reins in on me*

It haunts me now, what you said when I left. 

I deliberately planned it to be as rushed and abrupt as I could. My grandmother always taught me to pull a bandage off fast so the pain would be over quickly. 

So I mumbled apologies about the inconveniences and aggravations I had constructed myself and was gone as quickly as I could be. 

You said something about being best man and my chest clenched in horror at the thought. Even then, when I'd still managed to convince myself I was doing the right thing, even then I knew I couldn't possibly go through this charade with you at my side. 

So I mumbled something about timing and distance and custom and kept my eyes from yours. Then you said you were glad. You wished me happiness and said you were glad I'd found someone worthy of me. I was so startled I looked up. 

Whatever mercy there is saw to it that you were looking away for that split second or I might never have managed. But I could see it in your eyes, the self-reproach, the sense of failure. 

I couldn't deal with it then, couldn't process it, but it has haunted me ever since. Did you somehow think you weren't enough, you weren't somehow worthy? 

Do you have any idea how much it hurts me when you run yourself down? 

It's your father, isn't it? Much as I never felt like I was quite good enough for mine, at least he never told me so to my face. Yours did, didn't he? If he were still alive I'm not sure I could keep my hands off his throat for what he did to you. 

I've never understood this pedestal I seem to find myself on. People act as though I'm some paragon of virtue, some saint. But that's not who I am. I try, I do my best, to follow the ideals I was raised with, but that's not who I am inside. A saint wouldn't have to try. A saint would never have done this to Linda... or to you. 

You saw me with Victoria, damn it! You of all people should know just how far from being a saint I really am. 

Oh God, Victoria. 

I can still feel the blood rise to my face in shame for what happened. And I never apologised, did I? Afterwards I was still too caught up in my fantasy of tragic, eternal love to think. And later it was too awkward, the moment had passed. I don't know how you managed to ever forgive me for the pain I caused, the things I did to you, the things I almost let her do to you, to your family.... 

And yet you did, I could see it in your eyes. Complete forgiveness. 

How could I ever be worthy of that? 

> _*So, goodbye-- I'll be leavin',_  
>  I see no sense in this cryin' and grievin'--  
> We'll both live a lot longer  
> If you live without me.*

But I want to be. 

Oh God, Ray, what do I do? I could be just misreading this whole thing. What do I know of emotions and feelings? If I am wrong, if I am alone in this then I'll only be creating more problems, tarnishing old memories with awkwardness and pain. 

But if I'm right. What then? Will I be throwing away one half of my soul for the other? 

And what would I be bringing you? More embarrassment from 'the guy in the hat'? More laughter from your friends? 

Or worse? What would happen when they found out? What would they think? What would they do? 

You were right, you know. I am always dragging you into situations against your better judgment. Since you've known me you've been shot, hit by cars, beaten, thrown and bloodied by explosions. I nearly drowned you in a bank vault-- nearly killed you by my own hand, my own overconfident miscalculation. 

For me you've jeopardised your family's home and blown up your beloved car. You've risked your career and your dignity more times than I could name. 

The very thought of causing you any more grief makes me so sick I can barely stand. 

So what do I do? 

I was trained to be stoic, Ray, to endure pain in silence for the sake of others. My mind tells me that if I loved you even a fraction of the amount I think I do, I'd stay away and leave you in peace. It also says that it would be wrong to make such a decision for you. It says I am only trying to justify my feelings. It says I am only trying to rationalise my fear. 

My heart won't listen at all. 

For once I don't know, I only feel. 

Once upon a time you ignored pain and inconvenience and traveled hundreds of miles to find me because you had discovered something that I needed to know. 

I think, perhaps, it's my turn. 

_< finis>_  


* * *

Dianne  
Dianne la Mercenaire... -*- <cat.goddess@pobox.com>  
Vanity Web Page-- http://moonlight.dreamhost.com/lamerc/  
"I had to. I was depressed. When depressed, we must dance and throw a party." -- Chris 


End file.
